


Fulfillment

by viceprincipalpanch



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 02:37:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceprincipalpanch/pseuds/viceprincipalpanch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guys who aren’t low-life scum probably don’t fingerfuck themselves and pretend it’s the man paid to root around in their minds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fulfillment

**Author's Note:**

> hahahahaha i love franklin froideveaux hahahahaahaaaaa

Franklin realizes around the same time that his hand is down the front of his pyjama bottoms that Dr. Lecter really hit the nail on the head this time. After all, only a sad, pitiful little specimen like him would jerk off to past therapy sessions. Of course, in his therapy sessions, Dr. Lecter has never leaned in close and touched his knee. In fact, he’s pretty sure Dr. Lecter hasn’t even touched the doorknob right after he opens the door into his office; that’s just the kind of lowlife scum he believes Franklin to be, and he’s probably right.

Guys who aren’t low-life scum probably don’t fingerfuck themselves and pretend it’s the man paid to root around in their minds.

He ignores the nagging feeling that he’s doing the wrong thing and slicks his fingers with more lube. This is, he has to admit, pretty embarrassing, but desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s been months since anybody has even looked at him in a way that would suggest even the tiniest lustful urge, and the closest he’s come to a stable relationship has been the professional one he is pursuing with the good doctor. Unfortunately, if the results of his last appointment mean anything, even  _that_ relationship is woefully one-sided.

When he closes his eyes, though, shoving a finger inside of himself, Dr. Lecter is more than just a good listener: he’s an eager, active participant in their conversations. Maybe they’ve gone out before, in a group, of course, with Tobias and any number of Lecter’s —  _Hannibal_ , he allows himself, puffing out a breath as he adds another finger — and any number of  _Hannibal’s_  society friends. They chat, talk about his day, his insecurities, and maybe, just maybe, Hannibal leans in a little too close and smiles a little too secretly.

They don’t kiss, not just yet. Hannibal touches his tie and asks him where he got it, “because it is just  _exquisite_.”

Franklin inhales sharply, fingers moving slow and steady inside himself. He doesn’t want to rush this, because Hannibal never would. He is methodical, agonizingly so, so that when they do eventually share an intimate, against-the-rules kind of touch, Hannibal’s hand lingers and trails from his cheekbone to his shoulder. He tells him he’s rugged, with a well-fed handsomeness. Hannibal  _personally_ doesn’t understand how more people don’t find Franklin more attractive.

Working harder now, Franklin imagines their first kiss. He initiates it, and he convinces Hannibal that it’s alright. They’re more friends than they are a doctor and his patient, now. It’s been long enough. Hannibal agrees wholeheartedly, glad for the consent and even more glad for the declaration of their friendship—  _wait_. That’s not quite right. As much as he enjoys the thought, there’s nothing ringing true to what Hannibal is doing. If he really wants to sell it to himself (a sad thought on its own), he has to make sure there’s that little bit of reality in his fantasy. He pauses in his work, buckled over and supporting himself on his free hand, to rethink the scenario he just imagined.

During a particular intense session, he reaches out to Hannibal for comfort — physical comfort — and it becomes more than just a simple, stiff hug in a matter of moments. Hands slip low, lips press gently to the hollows behind ears, and he finds himself standing, resting against Hannibal’s lean, sturdy frame. There isn’t anything wrong any more. Nothing at all. Just the two of them, with no one to see or hear about what they do. Franklin twists on his mattress, enough so he can slip his right hand — the one not already hard at work — around his cock. This is where it counts.

He imagines that Hannibal stays stern, only gentle at the very start, when he still thinks Franklin needs a guiding hand. His kisses are careful and measured, each one a quiet smek, one after the other, until he knows that Franklin is ready for more. He’s an excellent kisser, intent on keeping the give and take balanced for both of them. As Franklin retreats, embarrassed by his eagerness, he leans forward, and when Franklin decides to take charge, he pulls back and lets him follow. Hannibal knows exactly how much Franklin has been needing this, has known for a while now, and he plans on giving him just what he’s asking for.

Every time Franklin thinks about Hannibal — which, admittedly, is very, very often — he winds his way down to wondering what kind of a lover he is. He figures he has sex much like he practices psychiatry: frequently, attentively, and ready to give his partner exactly what they need. So it figures that any fantasies he has change from one night to the next. Tonight, what Franklin needs is to be bent over the desk at the far end of Hannibal’s office and fucked, hard and fast and with wild abandon. His fingers move faster and his grip tightens.

That’s what he asks for, and it’s what Hannibal gives him. He takes his time undressing Franklin, stopping to feel the fabric of each piece he’s wearing. Hannibal is the kind of man who can appreciate fine clothes, since he wears so many wonderful garments himself. While he is dressed in one of his many three-piece suits, Franklin is wearing a sweater beneath his blazer, perfectly knit angora wool in a sandy colour. He can swear Hannibal is counting stitches one by one before he roughly pulls it off. His shirt is cotton, crisp white, and his tie is dark, bloody red with paisley splotching its surface; none of his clothes are tossed aside carelessly, of course, but his tie is given extra care. Each button is examined, plucked gently from its hole, until the coarse-haired skin beneath is exposed. Hannibal kisses him on his breastbone, beneath it, down and down until he reaches the triangle of hair leading from his navel and down below the waistband of his pants.

Franklin turns over on his mattress as he imagines Hannibal would have him turn over against the desk, then wonders if it would be better if he were standing. He wouldn’t be on his knees if he were in his doctor’s office, after all. He decides to get up, reluctantly moving both his hands to his sides as he walks, and brace himself against his low-slung dresser.

Hannibal is teasing him now, very deliberately slowing down each little movement he makes. He works Franklin’s leather belt from around his waist at a snail’s pace, unzips his worn corduroy pants with agonizing care, until a whine comes from the back of Franklin’s throat that says he’s had enough and no longer wants to be handled with kid gloves. His partners always try and take it slow, as if they’re reluctant to really give it to him, so he’s relieved when Hannibal doesn’t do much more than tug Franklin’s underwear down and spreads his thighs. He doesn’t spend much time thinking of the preparations at this point, too eager to get to the  _really_  good part to consider where Hannibal keeps his lube and why it would be accessible in his office.

Franklin pushes his fingers back in, relishing the moment and concentrating on what Hannibal’s breath would feel like on the back of his neck. Dr. Lecter, always a professional, probably wouldn’t even take off his suit, just shift his trousers down enough that he can fuck him without worrying about getting them dirty. It’s not out of any sort of shyness, and more out of a desire to get straight to work. He doesn’t dally. Franklin pulls his fingers out, not all the way, and imagines Hannibal starting to press in, how he fills him and makes him ache when it turns out it was just a tease and he’s not quite ready yet. When he  _does_  rock into him, he thinks it will be wonderful, much better than just a couple of his own fingers. Unfortunately, he can’t really replicate the experience of having hips slamming into his own, forcing them up against the side of a desk, without possibly knocking stuff off onto the floor.

Still, he presses his groin hard against the wood as his fingers move, taking great pains to imagine how Hannibal’s hands would drift around to his stomach, squeezing him and wandering over his rolls. He’s round and thick and full, and while normally he doesn’t like to have his bulk pointed out, when Hannibal does it it’s reverent. He remembers the words “well-fed” again and smiles to himself. That’s definitely the kind of thing Hannibal would call him, though maybe not with as much affection as he does in his fantasies.

Hannibal wouldn’t talk much, stoic as always. Maybe he would tell Franklin, as he leans over his shoulder, that he is doing a  _wonderful_  job, or to stay still, or to relax and let him do his work. He does relax, both in his fantasy and out of it, and works to try and rub against his prostate. It’s a good, hard ache, turning into a steady throb at the base of his spine. Hannibal’s cock brushes over it, not enough to give him the right kind of jolt, the one he needs, but he’s making up for it on his own. He can stretch the facts when it’s all in his head, after all.

The desk probably starts creaking underneath him with the force of each thrust — he holds onto the back of his dresser and tries not to knock anything off — but Hannibal just waves it away, telling him not to worry, it’s a solid creation, not unlike Franklin himself. His hands have settled on Franklin’s hips, fingertips pressing bruises into the skin at the top of his fat thighs, and maybe he speeds up. Maybe he says something Franklin can’t understand, low and horrible, chillingly soft right in his ear, and maybe Franklin makes a noise too, loud and desperate. He  _does_  make a noise, now, an embarrassing whine that reminds him how nice it is to live alone. Hannibal makes one last thrust, stays in him as he finishes, and, just once, whispers to him that he loves him.

Franklin comes, too, and stays up against the dresser for a while longer, slowly easing his fingers out to savour the feeling, the emptiness that follows. He’s drained, ready for bed, but first, he needs to clean off the front of the drawers with a damp cloth, and second, he needs to check when his next appointment with Dr. Lecter is. He’s got a  _lot_ to discuss with him, in the most veiled terms he can manage.


End file.
